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Screams erupted from the line as it hit. With a horrible crack, certain death deflected from the battered crest of Garret’s helm. Rusted shot tore through poor Victor opening his chest and spilling his bowels. He went down with a splash, disappearing into the bog, his innards torn at by searching roots pulling him down into the mud. “Forward!” Bellowed their Captain. “Forward!” A riot of musket fire erupted in response. The Sons of the Mandrake closed the gap. Their Inquisitor pulled a disgusting Shako’d hulk under with his eel hook, his brethren beat the enemy back with mouldy cudgels. In the midst of the whirling commotion, Garret chewed and gulped down the undulating mandrake he had saved since the start of the pilgrimage. He suppressed the urge to vomit as excruciating power surged through his body. Three enemy soldiers waded hastily towards him. Garret thrashed violently, hurling screamed curses at their searching pikes before severing their limbs. For a moment the battle waned and the soiling fog peeled away. Garret stood alone in silence. He could see the remains of his comrades among the root laden corpses of foul heretics scattered about the marsh. Unhooking a hatchet from his belt, he set about his grim work and settled in for lunch. Turnip28 is a regular glimpse into the horrible world dreamt up by artist Max FitzGerald. This issue will cover building your Regiment, the world in which they find themselves and the amazing community projects already in motion. C hurned mud and swampland stretches out into the gloom. Thick fog hangs heavy in the air. Rolling barrows loom out of the murk. A strange root writhes underfoot. A thousand years after the defeat of Napoleon at the Battle of Austerlitz, the world has fallen into decay. Endless war has led to technology stagnating, and beautiful countrysides have been ground to a thick ruin under the boots of a million dead men. Now, nothing grows. A bizarre and horrible root covers the land; strangling the life from the trees, poisoning the water, and filling the sky with an acrid mist. Humanity barely endures by harvesting this disgusting tuber. It twists their bodies and minds, and infests their thoughts with divine visions of lost vegetables. Bizarre religious orders have formed. They stockpile abandoned weapons unearthed by the twisting roots. Marching in column under fluttering banners, brandishing mud-clogged muskets and rusted bayonets, they are cruel parodies of long-forgotten armies on the march. Gather your troops. Fix bayonets. Devote yourself to the roots. I n this issue we will introduce you to the world of Turnip28. We will look at some of the pockmarked populace, the places they trample, and the strange roots that make their lives so interesting. We will show you how to start building and converting your own Regiment . We will guide you through naming your order, modelling your followers, designing your heraldry, and of course the most important part: choosing your patron root vegetable. We will also look at wonderful examples from the community and stories of strange goings-on in the County of Cist, the pock marked, fog bound focus of Turnip28. Exciting things are fermenting beneath the soil, so let’s begin! 5 A ncient burial mounds litter the landscape. Scattered huts peek out from the mud. Decayed trees creak in the breeze. Flocks of swellings swarm overhead as the puckered ooze of the swamp drowns another helpless fool. C ist is a landlocked county situated somewhere in what remains of Central Europe. Indecently muddy, miserable and home to all manner of foul creatures lurking in the mist. It is far from being a nice place. The inhabitants are equally as foul: a squabbling collection of ragged peasants, scavengers and murderers. The apocalypse has not been kind to Cist and its people, who in general are a sour lot. They have managed to claw back enough technology to exist in a somewhat medieval state, living as they do in cobbled together fortifications and the remains of slowly sinking slums. If a visitor were to climb up treacherous steps and look out from the highest towers of Geets, the capital of Cist, they would gaze through thick fog out onto a wheezing marshland pimpled with villages. A keen-eyed tourist might spot one of the many hunched parties of puddle farmers or stilt hut scavengers. The clanging bells and bellicose grumbling of these denizens carries along ancient and hidden paths through the swamp, while the patter of rain on rusted iron and the cry of disturbed marsh animals mark out further mysterious movements lost to the gloom. The county of Cist is an intensely schismatic place and this is reflected in its people. Every person, building and animal belongs to some form of unique cult or holy order dedicated to a root vegetable. Cistish folk—as is their correct demonym—insist on proudly costuming themselves in ancient uniforms and fashions. They will in every case resort to decorating their possessions in as many root themed icons, relics, pendants, banners and tokens as possible. A persistent unpleasantness, the roots have been part of life for as long as anyone in Cist can remember. What little history can be gleaned from decayed papers suggests that the roots infested the world with their enormous tendrils sometime after the cataclysmic black powder conflict. Running rampant and thriving in a countryside destroyed by war, the serpentine network of fibrous tentacles has sucked the life from the ground, poisoned the seas and fouled the air. In return for its laborious parasitism it has sprouted many strange and miraculous vegetables, which in turn feed the inhabitants of Cist. These roots have mutating, mind-warping effects, so that the people and animals of Cist and the larger world have changed in many odd ways. 6 D ining on the roots also provides strange dreams that encourage the people (and sometimes the animals) to spend their miserable lives worshipping and caring for this parasitic leviathan. The afflicted completely devote their lives to tending and harvesting the mutating gifts. These tubers, although appearing as slightly more repellent versions of our own root vegetables, are more often than not filled with semi-formed organs, cartilage and bones and are some way to becoming uncomfortably alive. Tasting repugnant, containing bloated masses of boils, hairs and carbohydrates, they are deeply adored by Cistish folk despite their mutating effects. It’s quite common for inhabitants— who after some years have begun to look more root-like than human—to be found gossiping in Bhirrian pubs about their latest lumps or fondly reminiscing about a particularly violent spate of The Rooty Growths. Von Sneg salivated under his visor as he leant in to sniff the relic. Carefully, he unclasped the gilded case and prized open the jewelled locket of bone that lay inside. ~ Warnings to the Obstinate by Victor Auguste W hile one is likely to find the locals complaining about their betters in the pubs of Bhir, there are also quite a range of settlements spattering the swamps of Cist. Geets is the biggest, having its own walls, cobbled streets, and labyrinthine bridges. Agoz Castle is a cramped and crumbling bastille forever sinking into—and rising out of—the mud. Gerpe has its walking stilt huts, Krotz its mines, Slek its forges, and Shellwood its mucus. The other settlements have been strangely silent this year, though it’s imagined they are just preparing for the upcoming festivities. Outside the county are root-ridden barrows: piles of bodies heaped in the aftermath of generations of Regimental squabbling, overgrown with moss and cloaked in an impenetrable fog. In the gloom roam enormous root- born horrors worshipped as minor deities by the hillfolk of Cist. Recently they have been spotted more and more by scavenging parties, the monstrosities loping around the foothills and moaning to themselves in their ancient tongue. 7 T here exists only one complete map of Cist, locked away in the lump pits of Cestlewerp. With the assistance of Tod, we have managed to smuggle a copy to help you on your way. Tod was once a dashing cavalry officer, who after a heavy night’s carousing decided to lick an amphibian radish for a bet. He became increasingly toad shaped over the course of a week, and now as a lumpy toad mutant acts as a sword for hire to those Regiments yet ignorant of his illustrious career. T he squelching county of Cist attracts roaming bands of root- obsessed zealots calling themselves Regiments. They flock to the county for the local root festivals, searching for rare roots with divine powers. The countryside becomes overrun with these homicidal pilgrims and famished root fiends. In Turnip28, hobbyists will find themselves in charge of their own Regiment and will swear allegiance to one root vegetable above all others. They will mutate their leader, gather their followers, and decorate their banners. Hobbyists will choose from a selection of powerful abilities, strange vegetables and chaotic weapons, which will all be described in the accompanying and still developing Turnip28 Core Rules. This living document will describe how to build a Regiment for battle, but we will briefly describe the makeup of a Regiment and its followers here as well. The officer’s eyes swam in delirious desire. Within the locket lay a tiny shrivelled potato-like vegetable. Oh, it was glorious. A root, perfect in its shape, its size, its scent. He had never seen anything like it. At the back of his mind the root reminded Von Sneg of his father. Uncaring, he reached towards the minuscule object, which was berating him about his long hair, and popped it in his mouth. The root tasted so fine as he massaged it around his gums, savouring the piquance with his tongue. Suddenly and without warning, his head imploded. In a shower of flesh the remains of Von Sneg’s neck and spine sucked violently upwards, coiling in mid-air. What was left of his features coalesced into a mass of wiggling toes and roots. His followers cheered as they clapped him on the back, then hurled his twitching body into the back of the cart. Good old Sneg, they murmured in the ranks. ~ Further Warnings to the Obstinate by Victor Auguste the Younger 10 T he door crashed inwards as several large men carrying cudgels and wearing evil grins entered the hovel. The elderly couple grimaced as brutish soldiers helped themselves to their valuables. Through the remains of the door frame the couple peered outside into the evening light. A horde of shuffling men and women marched through the village square, their formation resembling something less like an army and more like a millipede with a limp. Hunched and crooked, they stumbled forward in a grumbling mass to the chanting of Hedge Priests and the barking of Snobs. Visors locked by rust, bayonets bristling, mossy tufts sprouting from filth- caked bodies; they were the Regiment.. A Regiment is always led by a character, known to their followers as the Toff Individuals exhibiting odd mutations and outstanding personalities, Toffs represent the fanatic holy men, inspiring commanders, and auspicious prophets that aim to gain a reputation in the swamps. Following the Toff like leeches are a collection of squabbling Toadies . These are the snivelling subcommanders that fawn over their self-important Toff on their crusade. Supporting this cast of aristocratic characters collectively known as Snobs are their Followers, which can be categorised into three general groups: Brutes , Fodder and Chaff Brutes are the fighting elite. Especially dedicated to the cause and completely addicted to the strange powers of the roots, Brutes are relatively well fed and often heavily armoured. Fodder form the core of most regiments. These followers are the masses willing to lay down their lives for their odd causes. Malnourished saps, Fodder are gathered together in tight order and pushed onwards by pounding drums and inspiring banners. Chaff represent the lighter skirmishing troops. They are remarkably terrible shots, but the Chaff’s ability to distract and confuse opponents proves invaluable in the heat of battle There exist so many more exciting types of followers, cavalry, artillery, and characters a Regiment may collect in its travels. We just can’t wait to show you all the strange beasties and miscreants to come, especially Max’s favourite pet: a horribly cute loaf of bread on legs called, “Ergot.” 11 12 Didn’t think it would come to this. Really didn’t Was hoping to just let him go, write his silly world and publish it for you all to enjoy. But, we’ve had a few questions. Questions! Questions. You all just keep sending ‘em in, and someone’s got to answer them, and he surely won’t be getting to that any time soon. So, hello. Nice to meet you. I am The Editor. Now, there, don’t look so shocked. What, did you think our dear artist was doing this all by his lonesome? Of course not! Someone has to be greasing the wheels, running the press, mashing the papers, you know. I’m taking some time out of my enormously busy schedule to sit down and have a chat about root vegetables. You can thank me later. Question from Mary Snodgrass, London, Texas: “Max, where is Australia? What’s going on in Melbourne right about now? How about America? Oh boy I do love America, did you know in the civil wa—” Answer: Now, I hope you don’t mind if I cut you off right there. I too had the same dreams as you once. I was young, bright eyed, dripping with enthusiasm. I too dreamt of rooty Americas, and of dashing cavalry stampedes through the great outback. But unfortunately, and after heavy consultation with several historical experts (provided by Max), it has been quite assured to me that America has, in fact, sunk. It’s no more. Gone. Not satisfied, are you? Alright, fine, so technically that’s not what’s happened. Not fully, at least, but you see, what’s important to know about the world of Turnip28 is that it is very, very small and absolutely awful. Really, Mary, this is the third letter today. It’s Cist, or not Cist. Suffice it to say, you wouldn’t recognize the landmass on the map as “Europe”. Nor would you recognize anything as particularly American. Or Australian, Japanese, Indian or Welsh. It’s all simply gone, subsumed, mutated, or devoured. Please, stop sending this question Mary. We have found out where you live. Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ve, got to check on Max. Last time he started skinning animals and dumping the bones behind a Lidl. The Editor FROM THE DESK OF THE EDITOR 13 Dandelions & Devotion “Oh take him to the sodden plot and make him sup them all, And when he’s finished he’ll be so blind, he won’t see you at all.” B efore a band of raving butchers can be considered a Regiment they must devote themselves to a root. Regimental root veg are precious species that the Followers of the Regiment hold above all others. The particular variety of root is treated with supreme reverence while other varieties are despised with bitter hatred. Regiments are enormously proud of their root and will travel the land proselytising and singing tales of their exploits hoping to covert more followers to their banners. Which root calls to you? What rhizome whispers your name? Choosing a Root Vegetable is the most personal journey a hobbyist can take. Which will you choose for your Regiment? W ith a root must come a name. Something to shout at passers by, or chant under the breath while boottopping the root shrine. This could be won through bitter campaigning or vomited after a bucket of squench. Whatever its origins, a Regiment’s name falls into a few general categories. There are root based names, such as the Children of the Dying Skirret, or the Choir of the Forked Burdok. Ecclesiastical names like the Monks of the Shattered Dandelion and the Sinners of the Wayward Milkweed. Others are more militant, such as the Regiments named the Beet Rifles, the Yam Guards and the Horse Radish Highlanders. Regiments that have an affinity with some of the more habitable areas of Cist may take their names from their home, or perhaps, where they were originally press ganged. Geets’ Greasers, Mergland Gloggers, Bhirrish Rots and the Krottish Footlumps all are Cistish Regiments. Lastly there are the mercenary companies led by legendary commanders. Perponchers’ Balding Crows, Bennig’s Nasties and of course Von Sneg’s Fighting Eels. After a name has been chosen it is quite common for a Regiment to assign a number to their band of fellows, whether this reflects the amount of times they have been defeated, or their position in a grander congregation few can say for sure. Whatever the name, and whatever the root, the Turnip28th await you on the battlefield ready to spit on your corpse and enjoy a few hearty mouthfuls of your entrails. 14 U ndulating banners twitch in the wind. Foul symbols stitched into folds dance to the blare of a trumpets call. Toffs resplendent in their heraldic finery strut as crude root animals sloshed on their breastplates stand brilliant against the mud and drizzle. The Regiments of Turnip28 are covered in rambling heraldry, from their shields to their socks they cannot help but to show off. The designs carried by Regiments are often symbolic, representing a long and soiled history of deeds and failures. Your Regiment will no doubt have its fair share of triumphs and tribulations, so here we will talk through some of the more common heraldic designs and traditions to inspire your own. The muddy world of Turnip28 has occasional flashes of colour, though these are often inconsistent sickly smears rather than brilliant shades. • Seeping yellows and oranges are reminiscent of cowardice and long life, carrots and onions. • Putrid greens remind one of toads, bile or marsh stalks and can represent inexperience or misadventure. • Clotted reds often made from ground swill ticks show off the Regiments ability to suffer debilitating wounds or its passion for roots. Commonly paired with radishes for their impotent rage • Greasy purples and blues produced from varied snails often portray missplaced confidence. • Black is associated with victory as flags often become covered in gunpowder residue towards a campaign’s end. • Whites made from bone and root ash call out for forgiveness through murder. In addition to colours some regiments boast varied patterns as part of their heraldry. • Flames are common, representing the many souls of vegetables eaten. • Chequerboarding requires fiddly line work, usually left to soldiers with too many fingers. • Daggers and triangles represent the teeth and toes stolen from the enemy. ‘Orrible ‘Eraldry Included as an accompaniment is a heraldry and banner templates for you to scribble on. 15 A Root Priest’s Tale 16 M uch like an inebriated cuckoo, the leeching Root tries to mimic and replace the extinct creatures and plants it has swallowed. These animals and vegetables form the crests and coats of arms of the Regiments. This list is by no means exhaustive, but will hopefully inspire your designs. Make sure to press your ear closely to your root. Does it whisper to you, can you hear its song? Regimental Crests Burdock Dormant : The sleeping root is soulful and meditative Carrots Passant : Symbolic of columns of marching bayonets. Celeriac Salient : The leaping vegetable Represent overcoming confusion in battle. Dandelion with forked roots : can represent ambition with its reaching tendrils. Eels Coward : A favourite among Bastards Flowers : Do not last long in Cist and so symbolise a quick death. Goats Guardant : Common among artillery due to their pack-goat companions. Hogs intertwined : Symbolise family and duty. Kohlrabi Roots Narrowed : A sign that a Regiment has survived countless famines. Lampreys Dancing : A famous Parasite and skilled converter. Morris clutching root bladder pipes : A skeletal figure muttered about by only the heavily mutated. A sign of coming death. Mushrooms : The only other stubborn survivors of the apocalypse. Proving grotesque enough to exist in parasitic harmony with humans and the root. Never powerful enough to control their hosts, instead settling to bicker with each other until they stop itching. Mushroom heraldry is spattered and flecked to resemble spores. Potatoes, Eyes and Toads : All seeing. Root-born : The Root’s indescribable attempt mimic humans. The Regiment has survived an encounter. Slugs : Bravery without equal. Swedes : [kålrot to our Swedish friends] Mighty and proud Turnips Rampant : Fond of turnips 17 18 Regiments of Cist 19 The Turnip 28th There is no more miserable a life than in the Turnip 28th. A Toady reprimands their Followers after Cuthbert’s fingers were found in the stew. Cuthbert Plott, a short-lived Toff, leads from the front. 20 The local populace shout obscenities at a Whelp. Fodder line up for battle. Ergot jigs its way into the fray R ootmad and feeble bodied the Turnip 28th are Max’s personal Regiment. [They are, I assure you, human people, as are all the other soldiers and figures seen so far. Aside from Ergot, it’s clearly a loaf of bread.] - The Editor